


Tell You Something

by renquise



Category: Ookiku Furikabutte
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:56:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things that Abe Takaya's internal monologue cannot currently process: holding hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell You Something

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hikari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikari/gifts).



Abe isn’t sure what to think when Mihashi takes his hand.

They had been walking home from school, their foggy breath hanging in the air in front of them, Abe planning pitching regimens for the offseason, when Mihashi had stopped short. Abe had only gotten a few steps before he'd noticed, and he'd turned around to see Mihashi’s mouth flap open and closed a few times, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. And then, his mouth had snapped shut and he'd stumbled forward and grabbed Abe’s hand.

And now, here they are.

Abe’s ears are suddenly burning for no good reason. It’s not that cold out, not really.

He can’t feel Mihashi’s hand through their gloves, so it isn’t a matter of gauging his hand temperature. Mihashi isn’t asking for help, either, not even in that trembling, uncertain way of his, so it isn’t that.

Mihashi keeps glancing at their joined hands hanging between them and then looking away quickly, at the sidewalk, at the fence, at anything except their hands and Abe’s face. It’s kind of infuriating, especially because Abe is so damn confused as to what Mihashi could possibly need right now.

He doesn’t want to let go, though, because Mihashi might freak out and things would get complicated. Well. More complicated than usual. He just wants to shake Mihashi a bit to make words come out of him, but he knows that won’t work.

“What is it?” His voice cracks a bit on that last word, embarrassingly.

Mihashi’s head jerks up to look at him, and his mouth flaps open and shut a few more times. Abe feels like shaking him even more, his familiar frustration at dealing with Mihashi’s crippling awkwardness blended with an unfamiliar nervousness that sits uneasily in his chest.

There’s the thumping of feet behind them, and Mihashi startles-- but still doesn’t let go of Abe’s hand. Tajima screeches to a halt inches from Mihashi’s face, slings an arm over Mihashi’s shoulders, and says “Hey Mihashi, hey Abe, what’s up, where are you going, what--” He trails off and looks at their joined hands.

Abe needs to say something, anything, to knock Tajima’s inevitable precision missile strike of emotional astuteness and masturbation references off course, but Tajima is ignoring him and looking at Mihashi.

“You?” he says, and Mihashi nods slowly, and then hard enough to make his head fly off, squeezing Abe’s hand tightly. What if Mihashi got whiplash and couldn’t pitch without a neck brace, Abe thinks wildly, that would terrible, what would happen then. He’s somewhat aware that he’s only thinking about this because he can almost tell what direction this conversation is going, which definitely means he’s been hanging around these two for way too long.

“How long?” Tajima says, and Mihashi gives a short, jerky shrug, making Tajima’s arm bounce up and down.

“Whoa! And now?” Tajima presses, and Mihashi hesitates.

“U-um! I-- I just, and then, I’m not sure, so--” he says, squeezing Abe’s hand still more tightly.

Tajima nods sagely. “Right. That’s pretty brave, Mihashi!” he says, and claps Mihashi on the back.

Tajima’s laser focus switches suddenly to Abe.

Abe doesn’t run away from things. Abe, in fact, has a policy of meeting things head-on, no matter what. But all of a sudden, Abe feels like running, because he feels like he’s at the edge of something frighteningly important, a single fragile moment that could go so badly wrong. He shivers.

“Abe, you should kiss him now,” Tajima says, matter-of-factly, and then, in a display of tact that Abe would have never expected, claps Mihashi on the back again and says, “See you tomorrow, then!” and walks off.

All of a sudden, it’s very, very quiet.

Mihashi’s breath puffs out in short bursts, faster than usual.

It’s a really dry winter and Mihashi’s lips look chapped, Abe notes, still trying to concentrate on anything, anything, except the conversation that just happened. They’re really pink, and maybe it’s windburn, maybe he needs chapstick, maybe Abe needs to burst into flames right here and now, and he wouldn’t have to deal with stupidly talented, stupidly pretty, stupidly stupid pitchers ever again.

Mihashi is blushing so hard that his face is in not unreasonable danger of spontaneously combusting, but he’s looking at Abe with this open, trusting expression, and Abe wants to tell him that he can’t do this, that he’s smart with baseball and school, but not with feelings, and especially not with feelings where Mihashi is concerned.

He underestimates Mihashi, sometimes, he thinks. For all his flailing and stuttering, Mihashi knows what he wants-- the mound, and the team, and, apparently, Abe.

Abe squeezes Mihashi’s hand. If Mihashi can be brave, so can he.

Mihashi’s lips are, in fact, a bit chapped. Abe makes a note to himself to get chapstick on the way back.


End file.
